


The Walls Within

by TianShan



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Depression, Explicit Sexual Content, Germancest, Historical Hetalia, Historical References, Incest, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Power Play, Praise Kink, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rimming, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-04-02 03:43:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4044601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TianShan/pseuds/TianShan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>UPDATED 14/5/2016: Brief Prussia POV on the Versailles Treaty tacked on in the third chapter.</p><p>Summer 1989. The Berlin Wall may be about to fall, but that's not the only wall to surmount. Love, loss, fear, and self-hate block more than stone ever could. Flashbacks to end of WWII and WWI; the non-con is the threesome. First chapter is mainly Germancest that's very consensual. America will appear in the second part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here's your requisite double-warning about the non-con in this:
> 
> WARNING: non-con. 
> 
> Thank you, and have a nice day.

_Summer, 1989_

Most people believe Germany to be an orderly, disciplined nation of few words. Germany would agree with them.

What they don't know, however, is that Germany isn't outwardly silent because the inside of his head is: oh, no, far from it. Germany's head is a never-ending whirl of images and voices and Germany hates every single one of them.

Since the end of the war, Germany has worked hard. He works and works because otherwise there's nothing but a head full of voices and the profound ache inside at being separated, divided into two. If he'd let himself, he would have done nothing over the past few decades other than lean up against the wall in Berlin like a useless fucking sack of respiration (which is what he still is, but at least he can work). It's still hard to leave West Berlin for long periods; everything feels like an ache. Prussia can't leave… and, strangely, nor can he.

Germany is a good worker. He is very observant. He has put these skills to use and now his economy is back in shape and his power is growing. He is no longer starving, though he does make sure to take physical activity in large doses because otherwise he would get fat and most everything about him is terrible enough as it is.

Germany doesn't know how it's possible for things to be going so well, but him to be feeling so awful. He wishes it would stop, but has no idea how to make it. Surely England doesn't hate himself, nor France; America couldn't possibly what with how he always goes on about how awesome he is. Prussia certainly didn't. Italy didn't seem to.

Privately, though, Germany thinks he deserves to feel bad. He has let everybody down so many times. He can't even be trusted to govern himself. All he is good at is working at turning the cogs in the machine.

He doesn't tell anybody about this, though. Instead, he works to the bone and gets up early again so he doesn't have to think about it. Don't think; just be. He doesn't tell anybody about this; instead he just goes home at night, has a beer, masturbates to the porn that the world scorns him for liking before going to bed and doing it all over again.

He doesn't tell anybody about this. The only voice he hates more than the ones in his head is his own.

# # #

Germany really doesn't actively think much about the Treaty of Versailles, but he dreams of it. Often. First there was the blinding fury at being excluded from the talks and then the fear when helpless realization set in; even if Germany had _wanted_ to take up arms in WWI again, he was unable to do so. This was bad enough as it were.

It was the ratification, though, that still haunts Germany's dreams.

Prussia had a grim look on his face as both he and Germany were lead through the halls. Germany remembers the carpet as blood red, but is not sure if the color is accurate or even if there was carpet. (He could simply be projecting.) The air of the hall was chill, though, and heavy as if the very atoms of the universe were dragging on Germany's body, heavier than the chains he was not wearing but might as well have been.

They were surrounded by flat-faced French soldiers, who were walking them through the glorious French palace. "The last time I was here, it was when Wilhelm I was crowned German Emperor," Prussia said, voice somewhat quieter than usual.

Germany flicked his eyes over in Prussia's direction; Prussia was looking at him with something akin to a fond smile, which wasn't helping the knots in Germany's stomach and didn't mesh with the situation at all. He tightened his lips and felt sweat roll down his temple.

"It was when you were reborn," Prussia commented absently, as if Germany didn't know. "A much more pleasant occasion than now, I must say."

Yes, Germany would definitely agree. While this was his first time… participating in the inevitable aftermath of European wars in this way, Prussia had certainly spoken enough on the subject for Germany to be utterly terrified at the prospect.

Not to mention, considering what he and Prussia had done to Russia… the image of Russia's insane purple eyes bulging with pain as his mouth incoherently screamed to the heavens as Germany thrust in and out and in and out of the bloody, gaping hole that Prussia had opened with such relish… at the time, it had been exhilarating.

Now, Germany was literally concerned about pissing himself. He was here to be used and hurt. The Allies wanted to make him scream; make him bleed. In another situation this may have been anger inducing, but since it was _actually going to happen_ it was frankly terrifying. He merely hoped he wouldn't disgrace himself further by begging.

Prussia made a snorting noise in the back of his throat, that confident smirk so oft-seen during trainings appearing on his face. His eyes looked like two bright spots of blood in the setting sun. "West," he said, voice low.

Germany managed to turn his head, trying to force his features into impassiveness. This never worked very well, at least not with Prussia. Germany seemed decent at making the rest of the world think he was a lifeless block of wood.

"That was supposed to be a joke," Prussia said with his lip ticked up. "West, this won't be pleasant, but it also won't be _forever_. It probably won't last more than a half-hour, to be honest. You remember with Russia."

Yes, Germany _did_ remember, and was desperately trying not to. The soldiers lead the pair to the Hall of Mirrors, beautiful and resplendent in red and pinks with the setting sun… but to Germany everything just looked soaked in blood. Soaked in blood like the trenches, and soaked in blood like this room was about to be.

Soaked in _his_ blood. There was a single wooden table set up in the middle of the giant, gaudy hall, and Prussia _sighed_ like he was about to tackle a pile of extremely dull paperwork before approaching the table, and… starting to strip.

The French soldiers hadn't left, and made no move of surprise. Apparently they knew what was going on.

So that left the only unprepared one as Germany. Great. This wasn't helping matters. He stared blankly at his disrobing brother - Prussia tossed his travel clothes impatiently at the French soldiers, who picked them up and set them to the side.

Prussia looked strangely at him. "Come on, West, let's get this over with so we can go home," he encouraged, motioning to Germany's clothes, as if Germany should already know what to do.

Ashamed, embarrassed, and terrified, Germany's far-too-heavy arms slowly reached up and tried to undo the buttons on his shirt, but his hands were shaking far too much to be useful.

Understanding suddenly dawned on the now-entirely-naked Prussia. "Here, I'll help," Prussia said, reaching forward and undoing the buttons at Germany's throat. "West, sometimes I forget how you don't have the memories of the Holy Roman Empire," he said with a shake of his head and a trademark bark of laughter. "This is all very traditional multi-European-power politics. After the fighting's over, the losers get all trussed up and put on a table where the winners come and gloat for a bit, have a little fun with you… and then it's all over and you get 'em back next time."

Germany did _not_ understand how Prussia could be so cavalier about this, but then supposed that he would have to be… given how many wars he'd been in and how old he was. He was naked in front of enemy human soldiers, about to be 'trussed' - whatever that meant - and then raped and managed to talk about it like he was heading to the general store for sundries.

"West." Prussia's voice grew serious, and Germany's eyes snapped obediently over. "West, I need to hear you say something."

Germany wet his dry lips with an even drier tongue. "I d-don't know what to say," he managed, wincing as his voice wobbled.

Prussia sighed, and tugged Germany's shirt off before reaching down and undoing his pants; before Prussia had the chance to tug them down, Germany's hands moved of their own accord to keep them _up_ and keep his naked vulnerability hidden from the French soldiers, who were obviously starting to get impatient.

"West," Prussia said, voice a little stern. "This _is_ going to happen. Besides, we've just spent the last few years shitting in trenches and living like animals while watching men get their guts literally shot out. What is having sex in a damned ugly French castle compared to that?"

Well, when it was put like _that_ it almost made the whole charade seem reasonable, but at least while shitting in a trench Germany could _do something_. It didn't matter that he was in a fancy room with ancient mirrors and a polished table. What mattered was that he was going to be stripped naked and then summarily _used_.

There was no honor in this, and, again, normally this would have infuriated him. Now it was _absolutely terrifying_. Mute, he stared at Prussia, his hands still clutching the band of his pants like it was his only lifeline. He could feel sweat beading on his naked back.

Prussia groaned, his eyes pinching shut. "This is going to be so much worse than normal, I can tell," he muttered, clearly disgusted by Germany's open weakness and Germany wanted to say _I'm sorry I can't help it_ but his throat felt like rusty hinges swollen shut. Germany started to shake, shame starting to pour through him even before this had _started_.

"West, West," Prussia went on, his hands lifting from Germany's pants for a moment. He took a deep inhale. "Look. This used to be a little more difficult for me as well; I wasn't always so awesome about it," he said, clearly trying to ease Germany _somehow_. "If… if it gets too bad, just hyperventilate and pass out like you would for any other kind of torture, all right? Remember your training?"

Yes, Germany certainly did. It was rather difficult to forget practicing how to hyperventilate yourself out of your brother whipping you under the pretense of 'training.' He had never had to actually _use_ that particular skill before, but, like most things Prussia had taught him about combat, he supposed it was coming in useful.

Regrettably.

Germany managed to nod, feeling awkward and worthless and pathetic and terrible and anguished and ashamed - and was it possible to hyperventilate oneself out of emotional torture, as well? Prussia didn't seem to care about this, and the bored French soldiers obviously didn't. Why was he the only one? His eyes dropped to the floor.

"West, it's your first time - that you remember - and thinking about unpleasant things is always worse than doing them," Prussia told him. Germany was obviously doing a terrible job at concealing his emotions. (Unsurprisingly. He was terrible at everything else, so why not?) Prussia sighed again and rubbed his forehead. "Though, to be honest, I wouldn't have picked a fuckdamned _world war_ to be your first time on this end of it… we could have started off a little slower, but, well, it is what it is. Now," and here Prussia looked slightly up into Germany's eyes, since Germany was slightly taller, but with the haunted depths of that red gaze just inches away Germany felt infinitesimally small and scared, "come on, little brother, let go."  
  
Fingers still shaking, Germany forced them to release and Prussia dragged Germany's lower half free of clothing, stopping to tug off his shoes and then toss his clothing back over to the soldiers. Once Germany was naked, Prussia turned around and put his hands behind his back, clearly offering them to be bound. He nodded at Germany.

Germany felt like his entire body was either too heavy or too floaty, and simply turned around, his hands automatically mirroring his elder brother's motions; he felt the soldiers come up behind him and manacles were screwed onto both wrists, with three links of chain - Germany had gently caressed them with his fingertips to count, to have _something_ to focus on, something real - and thicker manacles went around his ankles, these with a bigger chain.

Prussia's chains were clinking as he tested the make of the manacles. "Definitely French," Prussia said with rolled eyes. "He probably makes the world's best restraints, for obvious reasons."

Germany didn't reply. He couldn't. And then the world went black as the blindfold went over his head. His very flesh went icy-hot with pure terror.

It was at this point that Prussia started to talk incessantly, and about absolutely nothing at all… something about how it was a shame they wouldn't be able to enjoy French architecture while they were enjoying French hospitality and something about food and… Germany doesn't remember. He was grateful, though, for the constant stream of familiar, friendly voice as something to make anchor on in his weakness.

Human hands guided him to the table, turned him around, and maneuvered him so that he was laying on his back, bound hands pinned under him, forcing his chest up and chin back. The table shifted and Prussia was arranged right next to him.

Germany felt like dinner, or like a science experiment, or an engine about ready to be ripped apart… it was only with every ounce of his military control that he wasn't shaking so hard that the table vibrated.

"West? Answer me," Germany realized Prussia had said, when the stream of meaningless conversation ended.

Germany swallowed. "Yes, Brother?"

"We're going to be all right," Prussia said, voice low. "Don't forget that."

At this point, the door opened, and Germany's body went rigid; the room filled with familiar-and-yet-hated voices: England and France.

Germany's memories fragment a bit here: Prussia's comment about the missing America (his voice was very distinctive and clearly not there) being harshly cut by England barking something and the sound of flesh-on-flesh; somebody probably slapped Prussia, which made Prussia laugh and ask the receiver if he could have some more.

Thin fingers touched his soft cock, then, causing Germany to seize up as the fingers casually manipulated the appendage as if they'd never touched such a thing before. Germany's balls slowly started to retract into his body as horrible, horrible goosebumps ran up and down and over and across his skin.  
  
France - it was definitely France - said something with the lilt of a question on it, but Germany was too busy listening to the roar of blood in his ears to answer. The fingers pinched the tip of his cock and a pained cry escaped Germany's throat as his body jolted with negative sensation.  
  
Prussia's voice, then, like a whip, attempting to draw attention. He could hear France and England responding, saying _something_ , but Germany was too scared, too weak, too worthless to even pretend to not care about this.

This would be used against him, he knew. And probably against Prussia.

This was all Germany's fault. And just like he couldn't win the war, he couldn't win _this_ , either. He couldn't even control himself.

Everybody else kept talking while Germany kept breathing. He could hear somebody step to the other side of the table, behind him; suddenly there were four hands on him… two cruelly playing with his sex while the others reached forward and grabbed Germany's nipples roughly in an angry pinch.

Germany's body arched up off the table in agony, a strangled noise escaping him.

Prussia's voice again, clearly agitated.  
  
"--Oh, but that's the idea," France said, one of the few sentences Germany's mind was forced to remember. "The idea is that you - and he - can't do this ever, ever, again." This time, when the calloused fingers pinched his nipples causing a second terrible spike of pain to arrow through his body, Germany felt a cry of anguish leave him, loud and sharp.

"This isn't even _that_ bad," England grumbled from above him. "Especially _considering_."

Germany was grateful for the blindfold. He felt his eyes flood with tears.

 _Pathetic_ , he thought to himself as his legs were lifted over his head. _You are so--_

Pain. Pain that started from between his legs and seemed to roll out to the ends of his toes and to the end of the world. Pain that tore him in half; he thought he would split. Germany wasn't even sure of the noise he released - he felt it more than heard it - but it was hardly human.

Prussia's voice was yelling somewhere and Germany's existence narrowed to the terrible rhythm that had started without his permission and these noises kept on escaping him, these terrible, terrible broken sounds--

"West!" he finally heard over everything, Prussia's voice, clearly heavy with distress, and Germany wasn't aware if he were receiving the same treatment or just couldn't bear to listen any longer to his little brother's pathetic cries. "Use your training, West!"

It wasn't hard to obey such an order. Dropping his mouth open Germany gave himself to ragged gasps of air that quickly accelerated as colors exploded behind his closed eyelids like fireworks, the fireworks of defeat as the roaring in his ears became cannonfire and the pain, the pain went away--

Germany's next sensation was stickiness. Stickiness and pain, along with the familiar smell of old blood. He was laying on his side on a hard surface - which was a good thing, considering that his ass felt like it had been impaled on a red-hot spike. He was still naked, but something was draped over him. His head rested on flesh.

After a few wary moments, Germany's eyes slit open, and he found himself staring at Prussia's naked stomach.

"Have a good sleep?" Prussia asked from above him. Both he and Germany were on the floor, Germany laying on his side with his head resting in Prussia's lap. The restraints were gone. Prussia was still completely naked, but Germany had some sort of thin cloth tossed on him… it seemed like a tablecloth.

Germany wasn't sure how to answer, so he simply looked up. Like Germany figured he himself was, Prussia's lower half was covered in blood. Germany had no idea how the man was even _sitting_ at this point, but Prussia just cackled and ran a hand through Germany's hair, apparently as unaffected as ever.

"We'll get 'em back," Prussia told him confidently. If Germany had been able to move, he would have curled up in a little ball. Instead, he simply gave into weakness ( _again_ , like you always do) and hid his head in his brother's thigh, trying to control the sudden urge to bawl like an infant.

Prussia rested a hand on the back of Germany's head, and they remained until their entourage came and picked them up.

This is where _that_ particular nightmare ends, and Germany wakes up alone in his bed gasping and shivering with a shamefully wet face as his hands uselessly grope for an older brother who isn't there.

# # #

While the original Great War was harrowing enough, it's the second one that hangs like an albatross around Germany's neck; one that he knows will never go away and can never be ignored. As is his duty, Germany tends this terrible garden of his own brutality with care, keeping up appearances and keeping it in check. It frightens him, though, it truly does.

The dream from this period that haunts him, though, isn't one full of ash or blood or bombs. It's not an event he's ever apologized or atoned for, because in the grand ledger of his crimes it's not a crime at all. It breaks his heart, though, not that there's anybody around to care.

It was clear by the 15th of March '45 that operation Spring Awakening had been an utter failure. Too ambitious. Germany's men hadn't had enough supplies or manpower to pull it off, and a retreat to Vienna seemed inevitable. Miserable, hungry, and exhausted, Germany managed to make it back to the tent that he shared with Prussia. Slumping on his cot, Germany carefully removed the jacket with the skeleton key emblem on it and drape it over the end of the bedroll. He bent down to remove his boots.

At that moment, Prussia walked in, his head half-bandaged up from an unfortunate encounter with shrapnel earlier in the day (the medic had told Prussia that he was fortunate to be alive; Prussia had cackled and asked, really?), and a small package of something in his right hand, that he dropped on the grass floor.

Germany looked over and saw a bottle of vodka peek out from the cloth pile, and raised an eyebrow at his brother.

Prussia chuckled and sat down on his own cot. "Went foraging. Dead men don't need alcohol or cigarettes any longer," he said with a cheerful shrug. Reaching down, he picked up the cloth bundle - it was a vaguely familiar field gray, and when Prussia shook it out… it was a _Volksstrum_ uniform, one of the civilian army.

Germany raised an eyebrow. "How did you get _that_ uniform?" he asked, confused. As far as Germany was aware, it was just Panzer divisions and their own _Leibstandart_ in this area.

Prussia shook his head and waved his hand, indicating that it was unimportant. "Take off your clothes," he responded instead, pointing between his legs.

 _Oh_. A warm, giddy rush went through Germany's body at that as he stood and carefully stripped - his body was beaten and ugly these days, but Prussia never seemed to mind - and went to go kneel in the grass between Prussia's legs.

He'd reached forward for the clasp of Prussia's uniform pants, but Prussia had stopped him with a shake of his head, instead electing to pet Germany's sweat-and-dirt-matted hair back absently, blunt nails brushing lovingly against Germany's skull.

They were losing, they were hungry, they were dirty, tired, disgusting, dressed in what would be the uniforms of history's most reviled military unit; but when Germany thinks of love, this is the moment that breaks him.

Prussia looked down at him like that for a few long moments, as if trying to commit Germany's filthy and confused face to memory, a small smile playing up on his lips. When Prussia moved, it was to disrobe himself completely; Prussia was as beaten, bruised, and thin as Germany himself was. It made Germany feel awful.

Prussia lay down on his side and motioned for Germany to follow him onto the cot; with two of them on it the fit was tight, but manageable. Closing his eyes, Germany let himself partake in resting his face against his brother's shoulder; truly, a luxury in these dark days. Their bodies pressed together, flush and perfect.

Prussia let the silence linger for an unusual amount of time, before tipping Germany's head to the side and speaking in a voice so quiet Germany could hardly believe it was Prussia's. "Don't say anything," Prussia's voice murmured. "Listen to me, West. The _Volksstrum_ uniform is for you. You are to wear it and desert camp tonight."

Germany obeyed and was silent; his response to that was evident enough in the way his body _seized_.

"Shh," Prussia intoned, his hand going through Germany's hair again in a calming motion. "You know as well as I do that the war is over. This Spring Offensive was the last major push."

…Germany nodded.

"Eventually we'll end up collapsing back on Berlin, where we'll likely end up being overrun by Soviets," Prussia said. "When that happens, I do _not_ want us to be together. The worst thing that could happen to us is both getting captured by the Soviet Union."

Germany swallowed. Yes, like the majority of his men, he was well aware that the Soviets had more than a few axes to grind and the idea of becoming a Soviet POW was not appealing in the least. Germany turned his eyes up to Prussia, though, and shook his head.

"I can't _desert_ ," he whispered, barely putting a touch of voice to the words. "I-I… loyalty, honor…"

Prussia rolled his eyes so hard Germany was surprised they didn't clank together, and then slid two motor oil-flavored fingers in Germany's mouth. "No talking," he ordered again. "If your mouth needs to do something, suck."

Germany's mouth obediently started working around Prussia's fingers.

"And forget honor and loyalty," Prussia continued, once Germany had been pacified. "This is war. Those things don't exist." He shook his head and looked at Germany with a pained expression. "What I'm about to tell you is not a lie."

Germany didn't speak and didn't stop sucking, but a pit of dread opened itself up in his stomach.

Prussia sighed. "It hasn't been released yet, but Hitler is going to enact something called the Demolition of Reich Territory Decree," he started slowly, his fingers moving slightly in Germany's mouth to encourage his sucking and soothe. "Basically, he wants to destroy all of our infrastructure to prevent the Allies from getting their hands on it. Since he can't have us, he doesn't want _anybody_ to have us. He wants to kill us."

Germany's body froze, and the sucking stopped. Prussia moved his fingers meaningfully and Germany instantly started up again.

"He has also issued an order to Sepp," Prussia went on, relentlessly. "Even though us and the 6th Panzer group have been outnumbered, undersupplied, and dying in droves in an attempt to pull off this oh-so-brilliantly-concocted plan from our dear boss, we apparently haven't been good enough and thus he wants to strip us of our armband titles to shame us. Thankfully, Sepp's got some sense and isn't going to enact the order, but that's what honor and loyalty gets you in the modern era, West. Destroyed and shamed. Now, if we had Old Fritz at the helm things would undoubtedly be more awesome, but, well… we don't."

Germany thought that he could literally _feel_ his heart breaking into a hundred little pieces. Thousands, maybe. Bursting like the shrapnel currently buried in Prussia's head.

"So, in the face of this, we have to act in our own interests," Prussia said, voice reasonable. "If we do as we're ordered, the Soviet Union gets two shiny German playthings and…" he shook his head. "I already know it's not going to be a picnic for _me_ , but if you're there also it will be an absolute shitshow and, fuck, I don't want to deal with that."

 _…because I'm weak and pathetic_ , Germany mentally added, his mouth still latched onto Prussia's increasingly-wrinkled and soft fingers.

Prussia sighed. "I don't see how we're going to avoid occupation this time 'round, either," he continued. "At minimum, it's going to be England, America, and the Soviet Union, but I have a hard time believing that French bastard is going to keep his too-long nose out of his share of the pie. However, since both he and Tommy have been nearly as destroyed as we are… it's going to be the America vs. Soviet Union show. I would suggest you find America. He seems to have the softest touch and definitely has the biggest wallet. Or, at least, if I were you, that's what I'd do." Here, his lip ticked up, amused.

With his mouth full of fingers and under orders not to speak, Germany simply looked up and gave Prussia's hip a weak little tug toward him.

Prussia always could read him like a book. He chuckled. "Nah, we can't _both_ leave. It would be far too obvious. Plus, this way I can pretend to be infuriated and send the hounds in the wrong direction to give you more of a head start. Though, you'll be shot for desertion if caught so… try not to do that, hm?"

Prussia leaned forward and kissed Germany on the forehead, and Germany was certain he'd shattered into pieces. He parted his lips and Prussia removed his very-warm, very soft fingers, dragging a trail of saliva behind him.

"Brother," Germany whispered, the word broken.

"Shh, I know," Prussia said, trailing his warm fingers down Germany's spine. "But we're going to be all right. Don't forget that."

A tear found its way across Germany's cheek, and Prussia's lips kissed it away. _Why is it_ , Germany had thought miserably, _I'm so terrible with words and yet so wonderful at crying?_

"Open," Prussia intoned quietly, the warm fingers resting above Germany's cleft. Germany nodded against Prussia's shoulder and bent a leg, stretching himself.

Military sex never was particularly easy, but having been stationed in the same SS group made it considerably simpler than it might have otherwise been. Being officers gave both Prussia and Germany the right to independent quarters, but they were able to explain bunking together due to being brothers. Of course, getting caught would probably have been the end of the world due to not only it be perceived as homosexual but incestuous… the threat of this wasn't nearly enough to stop it from happening, though. The only comfort in the whole world was found in Prussia's arms, and Germany helped himself to it whenever possible.

And now, this would be the last time. Prussia's slick fingers carefully penetrated Germany's by-now-very-experienced hole, and Germany sighed, his cock stirring to attention even without being touched.

It was the intimacy more than anything. Prussia smiled, feeling Germany starting to perk to attention against him. "Beautiful, strong West," he said, voice so low as to be barely audible.

…Germany hardened immediately with a gasp, and spread his legs, pushing more against Prussia's fingers and looking down. Prussia was only slightly hard, but the other man was chuckling softly at how quickly Germany had risen to attention at the praise.

"Good boy," Prussia intoned, and the warm feeling that sluiced through Germany's veins at that was more intoxicating than vodka. "Let's move to the ground, though… the cot will make too much noise. I'll lay down, you can service me with your mouth, and I'll get you nice and ready for me."

Germany nodded once, and carefully got off the cot, not moving far so Prussia wouldn't take his fingers from inside of him. He knelt in time with Prussia sitting down, on his hands and knees and bending over to take Prussia's cock in his mouth, carefully sealing his lips around it and soundlessly starting to bob his head. He knew he wasn't as good at this act as others… almost all of his experiences with it had been furtive, silent encounters with his brother. Oh, how he _longed_ to slurp and suck and drool and _groan_ for Prussia, to make Prussia lose his mind, loosen his tongue, and tell Germany how much he loved him, loved his mouth, loved his tongue, loved _him_.

He could feel Prussia's thighs tightening beneath him with the pleasure, though, so at least he was somewhat-adequate at oral sex (far more than he was at the art of war, apparently). Prussia's hand reached up to gently stroke at the backs of Germany's dirt-streaked thighs as one finger became two.

Germany's body _shivered_ with the burn, but he kept absolutely silent, his head bobbing up and down like soldiers marching off to battle.

"Lovely," Prussia whispered, and, oh, if he didn't stop talking Germany was just going to come _right then_. "So lovely. Dear West, I will miss this terribly, as much as it would be more awesome not in a fucking tent."

Germany had to reach up with a hand and _squeeze_ the base of his cock, otherwise he _would_ have had an accident. He would have moaned, but his military discipline took over and all he did was exhale a little louder than usual.

Prussia hummed quietly, and Germany _shivered_ when he felt Prussia half sit-up and his lips brush along the thin curves of Germany's ass, dragging the chapped skin of his lips along the sensitive sitspots, letting a rough tongue taste the soft whiteness as his fingers scissored against Germany's sensitive insides.

Taking another stuttered inhale, Germany released Prussia's cock from his utilitarian movements and bent down, twisting his head to gently take one of Prussia's balls in his mouth. The scent of sweat and musk and dirt was almost overpowering here, but Germany didn't care at all.

Judging by the muffled noise that Prussia emitted, Prussia clearly approved of his efforts. "Wonderful, beautiful West," Prussia panted.

Germany could have died in this moment and he wouldn't have cared at all. In fact, on his worse days he remembers this and wishes he had. He let his very, very soft moan vibrate through Prussia's testicle and worshipped the way his brother's body bent with the sensation.

Prussia shifted again, and split Germany's cleft wide open, removing his fingers. Germany barely had time to take a breath before a tongue went there - this wasn't unexpected, as their encounters often didn't have any kind of lube on hand. (They actually had used motor oil once… once.)  
  
The sensation, though, was always so overpowering. Lightning shocks of pleasure radiated from Germany's hole to the tip of his sex to the tops of his spine to the ends of his toes. His tongue gently rested against Prussia's ballsac, warming it before pulling away to lap at Prussia's cockhead.

" _Fuck_ ," Prussia groaned quietly against Germany's asscheek, letting his teeth sink into the softness there for a moment before returning to his work, fucking the younger with a clever, practiced tongue. After a moment, he began pushing fingers back inside alongside his tongue, causing Germany's body to _shudder_ with sensation.

When Germany took Prussia's cock in his mouth once more, Prussia's hand reached out to brush back Germany's dirty blond hair, to stroke him like an obedient dog… Germany tipped his head up into that touch, trying to remember it for all time.

(Sometimes, when desperately lonely, Germany will try to stroke his own hair. It's never the same.)

While he was trying to imprint the feeling of his brother's hand into his mind for all eternity, Prussia's _other_ hand hit that special place inside, causing Germany to _gasp_ and loosen up. Prussia chuckled quietly.

"Are you ready, West?" he asked. Germany nodded, releasing Prussia's cock and rolling onto his back.

…this part was one of the best parts. Germany made sure to look at his brother's face when he spread his legs.

Those red eyes would lock to the secret places between Germany's legs, and then travel slowly up and down his body, no matter how beaten and marred it was. He would wolfishly smile in approval. Germany would leak like an excited puppy.

Germany's nipples perked, his face flushed; he lifted his legs to his brother, who would slide forward and take Germany's knees over Prussia's shoulders.

Prussia smiled, let his fingers toy just a little more with Germany's entrance as he twisted his head and kissed Germany's inner thigh for a reverent moment before gently sliding in.

Germany took the intrusion silently, tipping his head back and letting the slight sting even out into the warm familiarity of sex with Prussia.

He wasn't sure when this was going to happen again, if ever, so he took a shuddering breath and made sure to catch his brother's eyes.

Prussia was looking down at him, his albino-white hair splaying around his skull like a halo, blood-red wells of his eyes reflecting Germany's spread body. "My brother," he said quietly, as his hips started to piston in and out in that mechanical, sure rhythm that Germany knew his own heart beat with.

"Brother," Germany whispered, and this time when his eyes overflowed he wiped the wetness away himself and gave himself over for this one last time.

Germany finds it easy to focus on sensation; the feeling of crushed grass beneath his back, itchy; the dull ache of the wounds on his back being agitated; the pounding of his heart in his throat and cock; Prussia massaging him from the inside out, his hands reverently moving on Germany's thighs, buttocks, and hips.

Finally, one of those hands moved out to take Germany's cock, and Germany exhaled shakily, drinking in Prussia's look of approval as Prussia worked him on the inside and from the outside.

"West," Prussia whispered, with such fondness in the tone that it wouldn't have sounded any better if he'd screamed it.

With a swallowed sob in response, Germany's head tipped back and he _came_ , hard, feeling the wetness slap him on the underside of his chin before Prussia reached forward to block the spray with his other hand.

Prussia grunted, and hot pulses filled Germany's body: Germany hurriedly looked up to see his brother's face twisted in orgasm, strong white teeth biting into his lower lip.

When both were done, Prussia carefully moved, removing himself from Germany's body and setting the other down. Germany winced slightly, but sat, used to the sting after sex.

Prussia looked over at him for a moment before reaching forward and gently cupping Germany's jaw, guiding him over and pressing his mouth against Germany's.

(When Germany masturbates to this memory, this is where he comes.)

Germany barely moves, barely breathes until Prussia pulls back just a hair; he can feel his brother's stubble brush against his as he speaks. "Now, you're going to put on your current uniform, take the _Volksstrum_ uniform, booze, and cigarettes… maybe you can barter them for food, I wasn't able to get any of that… change into the _Volksstrum_ uniform when you're out of camp and head west until you find England's blue-eyed wet dream. Don't look back, and don't fail." Despite being naked, Prussia was still an excellent commanding officer.

Germany took an uncertain breath as if he were about to argue… but he knew he wasn't. Prussia raised an eyebrow. "When I give orders, I expect answers," he told Germany.

"Yes, Sir," Germany whispered.

Calloused fingers tipped up Germany's chin until twinned firestorms masquerading as eyes swallowed him whole. "Is that the tone of voice you use to address your superior?" Prussia asked, voice still quiet, but far more firm.

"No, Sir," Germany said, mirroring Prussia's tone instantly. Prussia smiled, and his hand brushed through Germany's hair, lingering on Germany's jaw. Germany leaned into it.

One perfect breath. Two perfect breaths. Three.

"Get dressed," Prussia commanded, at the end of the third exhale.

Germany obeyed, face blank as he slid on the _Volksstrum_ uniform and then covered it with the SS one. (In reality it should have been impossible for Germany to do this, but he'd lost so much weight…)

Prussia nodded at his strategy. "Just make sure to throw the SS uniform in a large enough body of water with rocks to sink it… burning it would be better, but you probably don't want to risk the fire. Obviously, it will be harder to track you than to track a normal human, but since you're high-ranking, they will probably want to at least try. Keep moving for at least 24 hours. Don't stop, West. We'll see each other again."

The lump in Germany's throat was far too large for speaking. Picking up his knapsack, he threw in the cigarettes and vodka and slung it over the shoulder with his pistol… carrying his larger firearm could make him look suspicious to the others in the camp and… well, they would probably need the munitions, honestly. He stopped and turned around at the closed flap of the gate.

Prussia looked at him, paler than usual, thinner than usual… still entirely naked. Despite this, he stood straight and saluted. Not the Nazi salute; the regular army one. Germany felt his body return the favor in kind, before he turned around and walked into the night.

It had taken him seven days to get across Hungary, Austria, and Germany, barely sleeping. They had tried to track him for a while, but gave up. (It was difficult, very difficult to track a nation on their own land if they did not wish to be found.) Outside of Vienna he was able to ride on the back of a horse-drawn carriage for a few hundred kilometers with a group of refugees in return for his pistol and promise to help defend the group if necessary (most of the refugees were women and children); he left them outside of Nuremberg. They were heading south to Stuttgart; Germany could feel America further north.

From here, he got caught by patrols and executed as a deserter twice: the first time he was shot, and the second time he was hanged. Germany still remembers his vision graying out from a too-angled neck as spectators watched on uneasily.

After the first execution, he woke up divested of his vodka, having consumed the cigarettes himself to stave off hunger a while back. He supposed he was fortunate he still had shoes. After the second, he picked up an old WWI musket that had been rusted shut; one of the other hanging victims must have been carrying it. It was useless in terms of shooting anything (there wasn't even any ammo appropriate for it nearby), but Germany figured that it would be better than nothing if he had to fight hand-to-hand. He was really getting tired of his own people killing him.

However, this wasn't necessary. While heading toward Frankfurt, he followed an instinct that whispered _west, west, west_ (sounding eerily like Prussia), finding himself outside of Nierstein.

It was here that he stepped out from behind a tree, beaten, bruised, half-dead from starvation and armed with a useless gun; it was here he fulfilled Prussia's final order to him and surrendered to England's very surprised blue-eyed wet dream.

But that is another story.  
  
# # #

HISTORICAL NOTES:

TREATY OF VERSAILLES: The commonly accepted rhetoric about the "big treaty" between Britain, France, and Germany that ended conflict between these nations was that the terms exacted on Germany were extremely severe and the severity of these terms lead directly to WWII. However, there is some conflicting history to this view: many historians say that the Versailles Treaty was comparatively lenient in some ways, particularly since Germany wasn't actually occupied after the war. They also kept hold of a substantial amount of land, and according to some even the reparations weren't as crippling as most believe.

Additionally, it's a fallacy that WWI was ended by the Versailles Treaty alone. Most of WWI was settled by separate treaties, and the treaty that Germany had written up with the Soviet Union (Brest-Litovsk) was _far_ more harsh than the treaty of Versailles was. The Versailles Treaty terminated the Brest-Litovsk treaty, however. (This is why England remarks that it "isn't so bad.") France was the one wanting to draw the most blood with the Versailles Treaty, as it was France who took the most damage from WWI and absolutely insisted on a) getting war reparations, and b) dismantling Germany so that it wouldn't be able to wage a war on the scale of WWI again. However, due to conflicting goals among the Allies (Britain didn't want things to be so harsh, wanting Germany as a viable trading partner), Germany was left deeply unhappy with the treaty and yet not nearly weakened enough to stop aggressions.

However, the main thing about the Versailles treaty was that it was _perceived_ as very unfair to the Germans, and particularly the "War Guilt Clause" (where Germany was forced to take on the burden of guilt for starting the war) was seen as a violation of honor. (In this the Germans had a very good point; saying that WWI was entirely the fault of a single nation is a gross oversimplification.) In fact, this was considered so injurious that the German government actually wanted to start up WWI again, and the only reason they did not was because they physically could not. Basically, whether Versailles was fair or not is less the issue… but its overall reception was negative and it definitely contributed to making Germany fertile for Nazism.

America was originally part of the Versailles Treaty, but Congress never ratified it, nor did America ever join the League of Nations that Woodrow Wilson had created. The Americans officially ended hostilities with the Central Powers in 1921 by way of the Knox-Porter Resolution. This is why America isn't present in the scene.  
  
THE SPRING OFFENSIVE: Operation Spring Awakening (6 Mar - 16th Mar 1945) took place in Hungary around Lake Balaton; this was where some of the last oil reserves available to the Axis were. However, it was a failure since Hitler was far too ambitious in planning, and the Germans had to retreat.

Both Prussia and Germany are members of the "1st SS Panzer Division _Liebstandart SS Adolf Hitler_ ," which has a skeleton key as the insignia. It originally started as Hitler's personal bodyguard, but eventually became a combat unit. They were involved in Spring Awakening, and some of them ended up fighting in the final battle of Berlin. (While Germany wears a uniform more similar to the Wehrmacht in the anime… frankly you'd think that if the nation personifications were going to be serving in Nazi German armed forces, they'd be involved with the party's direct forces and not the separate and more general armed forces.)

The "armband order" that Prussia mentions was given out by Hitler after the failure of Operation Spring Awakening, claiming that it was the troops' fault the operation had failed and revoking their titles. Sepp Dietrich, the field commander, was reportedly offended by this and did not pass on the order.

The Destruction of Reich Territory Decree was given out in March 1945, as Hitler didn't want German infrastructure to fall into Allied hands. This very likely would have ended up killing hundreds of thousands of extra civilians after the war for want of clean water alone. Albert Speer, another high-ranking Nazi, did not pass on Hitler's order to do this.

The motto of the SS was "My honor is loyalty," which is what Germany is weakly referring to before Prussia tells him it's a total load.

GERMANY'S YOUTH: The history of the German states is complicated prior to Bismark's unification in 1871. However, if you consider this when the current "Germany" character was formed, he is extremely, extremely, EXTREMELY young in both WWI and WWII in the eyes of nations. When WWI starts in 1914, he's only 43. When WWII starts in 1939, he's 68. To put this in context (in terms of the characters), assuming that you start America's development as a character with Europeans appearing on the American continent with serious intent, he's been around since the 1400s and would be over 350 by the time of the American Revolution. If you start America's development with Jamestown, he's 168.

While Germanic states have been around for millennia, since the adult Germany seems to be an entirely different character from the Holy Roman Empire character (and that there was so much political upheaval and war and what have you), I basically write Germany as an entirely separate character. This is a very long-winded way of saying, "this is why Germany apparently has little idea how Europe works after wars and also why he's slightly childish as a person." He had to grow up very fast. While he's been able to handle all of this extremely well as a nation… he's had some troubles with it personally, clearly. He looks very mature, but in many ways he truly isn't.

This story hooks in with some of the others I've written: the WWII scene leads into "This Goddamn Stupid War." 

Anyway, this is a leadup to the fall of the Berlin Wall, which I promise will make the poor German characters a little happier than they've been in my works. I've been beatin' up on them a bit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because this story is from Germany's perspective, English-speaking is indicated in italics, while German is in normal punctuation.

It won't be long now, Germany knows. He can feel the happy agitation in his people, both those who are officially his and those in the East who are his-but-not-but-actually-his. It's not going to be long. The writing (and graffiti) are on the Wall, and Germany walks through most of his days feeling honest-to-god high from all the heady emotion around.

England isn't happy about it (the one and only time Germany almost gave in to the urge to punch the other nation was when he had the gall to comment, _I like Germany so much I'd prefer two of them_ , but Germany didn't because violence is apparently not the answer) and nor is France (he's toned down a bit, though, just rolling his eyes), but America's basically over the moon about it. If he had to pick one of the three to be pleased, America's the one he'd pick, if nothing else for strategic purposes.

Of course, America only likes it because it's basically the symbolic destruction of the Soviet Union; the only reason why America likes him at all is for the symbolism, really. East vs. West, the great Hollywood blockbuster being played out on a live stage in Germany. Sometimes this feels extremely demeaning, but, well, Germany's been demeaned worse before and he does like Hollywood movies. (Except for the ones about WWII. He doesn't watch those.)

Though, Germany understands why America's movies are so good: the man is a fantastic actor. He has been since the Berlin Airlift, frankly, where he more or less forced Germany to drink pilfered coffee in the name of something America had called "friendship." When he had started spearheading the initiative to drop candy parachutes over West Berlin, Germany had avoided him for months, baffled. Finally, Germany had invited America to his postwar hovel of an apartment where they drank Coke and America actually allowed Germany to take him, which was surprising. Germany tried to make it as good for America as Prussia always had for him; it seemed to be successful but America probably had no experience having clandestine sex in tents because the man was _loud_.

In the years since, he'd seen a lot of America, in particular; the man liked to do things. He liked to go camping. He liked to go drinking. He even convinced Germany to buy a motorcycle because America wanted to go speeding down the Autobahn like an absolute madman. He would invite Germany frequently over to his house, but leaving his country just seemed too utterly painful to Germany. He actually hadn't since the end of the war. Leaving Prussia - even though they hadn't seen each other since that camp in 1945 - was just too much to bear.

…Germany had to admit that the motorcycles had been the most fun he'd had in a while, though. He likes machines, he likes going fast, and America squealing over a BMW and German engineering was more than enough masturbatory fodder for a while.

Camping wasn't bad either. He enjoyed it now that it was a recreational activity rather than something he had to do in order to vainly try to not lose a war. That's how he found himself camping in the middle of nowhere around Munich, sitting around a dying fire with America seated across from him, with America vaguely strumming on an old guitar.

Unlike Germany, who had made an art out of revealing as little as possible, America was always managing to express something. He talked a million miles a minute while wildly gesticulating; when he wasn't talking he was normally humming or producing extremely expressive facial expressions or playing a guitar or drumming out rhythms on a tabletop. The man could have an entire conversation without saying a word if he wanted, it seemed… but America really liked saying words.

In some ways it reminded Germany of Italy, which is probably why Germany appreciated it on a certain level. Being expected to hold up an end of idle conversation was stress-inducing; having the responsibility taken away by the other person doing all the talking was a relief. Just that rather than Italy's sweetness and softness, America was an absolute juggernaut. But at the moment he didn't appear to be: across from the fire, looking up at the stars, aimless soft noise coming from his hands, that one stray lick of blond hair moving in the soft breeze. Unsurprisingly, America was also quite good at the guitar; Germany liked to watch his fingers when he wasn't watching the fire.

The music abruptly stopped, which got Germany's attention. He could see America stretch and stand, before walking around the fire to sit on Germany's left side, so he could still hold the guitar without hitting Germany in the chest with it. His other hand held a bottle of bourbon, which he knocked back a swallow of before handing it to Germany.

Germany had already had quite an impressive amount of beer for the night, but America also seemed rather hammered and wasn't that the _point_ of camping if you didn't have to worry about shooting enemy soldiers at all? He took the bottle and had a drink.

America took it back. "Ludwig, Deutschland," he said, making Germany turn to look at him - America rarely bothered to speak German with him nowadays, given that Germany was now entirely fluent in English. _You know, I like the ways your names sound better in German rather than English._ Swig. He passed the bottle back.

 _…thanks,_ Germany said, not sure at all how he was supposed to respond to that. _Drink_. Pass.

America took the bottle and had another tipple - it wasn't even half empty. _Yeah. English sort of ruins it. It makes the name 'Ludwig' sound like you're accidentally dropping books on the floor or something. 'Lud-wig.' Nah. 'Loot-vig,' now that's sexy._

…Germany took the bottle from America this time, making America laugh as Germany desperately took another swallow to cover his blush and the spike of arousal that went through him. _German is not a sexy language,_ he tried, going with well-known stereotypes. _We sound angry all the time_  

This made America's flushed face produce another one of those smiles. _German is sexy as fuck,_ he responded, causing a hot flush to erupt across Germany's face. _Very commanding, authoritative, that sort of thing_ He tipped his head. _It doesn't sound angry to me, just… you know, forceful. Aggressive. Assertive._

 _None of which are words that describe me,_ Germany said, looking off to the side and unconsciously shifting up his shoulder. Oh god, please don't let this conversation involve the 40s. _I've done everything you've told me to do._

A warm hand rested on his arm. _That wasn't what I meant,_ America said, and when Germany looked back over, a strange, more serious pall was cast over the other's face. _Germany, I…_ There was a pause, and then America switched to German. "Germany, I'm going to ask you a question, and you need to answer."

Germany knew that America had actually been trained by Prussia back in the day when America was attempting to break away from England; sometimes they had eerily similar mannerisms. Germany thought that Prussia and America would probably get along _too_ well if they ever spent a long enough amount of time together after the current conflict with Russia ended. (This would be bad for the world.) Germany simply looked at America; wordless permission to continue.

"Whenever I say something, you seem to always assume I'm making some critical remark about you or am trying to use you for something. Obviously, back in the 40s and 50s… I understood that, and, yes, the whole thing with Ivan involves you a lot but… if I tell you I think your language sounds good because it's authoritative and assertive, why do you think I'm actually making a negative comment?" The stray lock of hair bent in the wind over blue eyes that just looked confused.

Germany looked at him blankly, and took another large gulp of the bourbon, feeling the world spin slightly too quickly on its axis. He was too drunk for this, and even though his face was in its usual impassive mask, it felt like everything behind the wall was falling into nothingness. "It was a misunderstanding," he replied woodenly. "It won't happen again."

America sighed, and rubbed his forehead. "Germany, this happens all the time. I'll say the food was good; you say it's mediocre. I'll say the scenery is nice; you say I've got bigger mountains or wider plains at home. It's not as though I don't get… mm… how do you say in German when you don't give yourself enough credit?"

"Self-deprecation _,_ " Germany responded immediately, taking another drink before America relieved him of the bottle to have one of his own.

"Yes, self-deprecation. England's the king of it and Japan's reigning empire. But when you do it, it seems like you… you believe it."

Germany, who was too drunk for this conversation, wondered who in the hell pegged America as unable to read atmosphere. Currently, it was Germany who was unable to figure out how to stop _emitting_ atmosphere. "Because I do," he said, four syllables that fell to the ground like shards of glass.

Silence for a moment. "Why?" America asked.

Germany looked at him. "How would you feel if when people thought of you the first thing that pops into their mind is death camps?" he asked. "Beyond that, I've been split in two, I can't see my brother, I don't govern myself, part of me is worried about what will happen if I do end up governing myself since I didn't do a very good job of it before, did I? Not to mention, you do have more land than I do and the Rockies are bigger than the Alps." No reason to be illogical about it.

America's face looked bewildered. "…look, the Nazi regime is going to loom large for a long time… and for good reason… but there are lots of things about your history that don't involve that. Your people invented the printing press, for crying out loud."

Germany shook his head. "I don't remember any of that, he said flatly. I only remember from 1871, and then Prussia was mostly in charge until after WWI." He reached out for the bottle again, and America handed it to him.

America nodded slowly, and Germany waited for the expected remark about how young Germany was. "You've had a shitty time of it, then," America said, instead.

"I did it to myself," Germany said shortly.

America shook his head. "No, I mean, like, you. Ludwig. Not Germany. I mean, in terms of actual years of memory, when I was just over 100 years old I hadn't even seen real combat yet and was barely out of a christening gown. You've had much more shit happen."

Germany looked at him, and then away.

America shifted the guitar so he could lean forward against Germany's side, a warm, heavy weight that smelled vaguely of sweat, barley, and soap: Germany was used to America's particular scent bouquet at this point. "I like you, though. Like, I really do, outside of the nation stuff. Though I do like your language, food, and scenery, mind."

…Germany felt the blush start to return, and he looked away. America's fingers reached out and tugged his chin back over; Prussia used to do a similar thing.

God, if America and Prussia ever spent any time in each other's company, the world was over. The American-Prussian Empire would drown everybody in self-proclaimed awesomeness. Or nukes. Probably both.

"You're smart," America went on, absolutely relentless. "You're a good listener. You're obviously good with your hands and good with mechanics. You love dogs; it's hard for me not to like a person who likes dogs. You're good at cooking, a hell of a lot more considerate than I am, and… well, I think you're nice. You've always been nice to me. Don't think I haven't noticed how you always have the beers I like and Coke and things on hand when I come visit. You pay attention, and I like that, too."

This was all said at such rapid fire and with such apparent blatant honesty that Germany was sure his face was as red as a tomato when America was done.

…he was also undeniably, embarrassingly hard.

America was looking down at the tent in Germany's jeans with interest, and then back up at Germany. "So that's what you like," he said absently, apparently more to himself than anything. "That doesn't happen… all the time when somebody compliments you, does it?"

"No," Germany said, shifting. "But it's not like it happens all that frequently."

 _Jesus Christ,_ America muttered, slipping back into English for the utterance. "All right. Put your hands on your head for me."

…Germany obeyed. A bit hesitantly, but it wasn't like he couldn't move them down if he wanted--

"Good boy," America purred, and it had been _so long_ since anybody had said that Germany almost came in his pants, gasping quietly, his blue eyes snapping to America's face.

America grinned, a flush of his own appearing. "Is there anything in particular you like for this? Or just for me to say nice things about you until you shoot? Trust me, I'm willing to do that - this is pretty hot, actually."

Germany wasn't sure if his face could get any redder as he looked away. "I need to be doing something," Germany mumbled. "Doing something well."

"So you get off on following orders and being told how well you're executing them," America said, and if he hadn't of sounded so delighted about it Germany probably would have gone soft with humiliation. "That's so you. No, don't look like that. It is you, and you're wonderful!"

Germany took a breath over another wave of hopeful arousal. He supposed that if getting off on following orders was "so him," being able to praise others as effusively as he praised himself was "so America." Hearing him say it in German made it all the more potent.

"German does sound sexy when _you_ speak in it," Germany said, voice a little weak, trying to hint that he should _keep_ speaking in it.

America laughed. "Hint taken. German it is. So, like, military orders or…"

On one hand, it was excruciatingly embarrassing to be talking about this with _anybody_ \- he'd never even openly discussed it with Prussia, really - but on the other hand he was drunk and needy and just so weak with it all that oh God who really cared? Did it matter? He shook his head, his hands still resting on his head. "No. Not military at all."

America tipped his head, looking very much like one of Germany's shepards. Germany might have patted America on the head ( _I am not sober_ ) if his hands weren't under orders not to move. "Can you tell me what it's like, then?" After a moment, America reached forward and his large, warm, calloused hand cupped Germany's chin and _ohhh_.

Germany leaned into that touch and allowed his eyes to shut, his body vibrating in pure joy. "It's like this," he whispered quietly, unconsciously turning his head so he could brush his lips reverently against those fingers. They were thicker than Prussia's, the palm wider; despite the differences, though, his innards quivered with the need to please, the need to be reassured, the need to hear a voice say kind words louder than all the cruel ones in his head.

America was quiet for a moment, brushing the pad of his thumb against Germany's lips when Germany tipped his head up again, the touch reminding Germany of being fed sweet orange from these same hands back in the late 40s. He kept his eyes closed as America said, "You know, over the past… forty years, I think I've ended up sleeping with half the world for one reason or another. I've gone from being a recluse to being a whore, basically. Most of us have… well, certain fetishes and interests and whatever. I won't kiss and tell, but… I will say that you probably have the softest and most romantic kink of the lot. Which… if we're playing the stereotype game… is… not what I would have expected."

Germany's eyes opened and he looked up into America's flushed, smiling face. "Is that a bad thing?" he asked, voice very quiet. The quivering inside shrank; fear of rejection.

America grinned and shook his head. "It's a wonderful thing," he blessedly said. "You're… damn, Ludwig, how sweet you actually are is probably one of the world's best kept secrets."

Germany blushed to the tips of his toes and felt a warm wave go through him. _Yes_ , exactly, to be seen as gentle and likeable and eager-to-please rather than warmongering, hateful, divided-and-conquered. He was already hard and this would be embarrassing, but, damn it, what was wrong with wanting this? To be liked? "Am-America," he tried, not sure how at all to talk any further about this. "Please." His eyes closed.

America leaned forward and kissed Germany's forehead, Germany could feel the heat from America's body, and feel the curve of his smile pressed against his skin. "Of course," America said easily. "Fucking hell yeah. Okay, can I tell you how hot you are as well?"

…Germany nodded, feeling his skin heat up and tingle.

"God, this is going to be fantastic. Germany, you're hot as hell… everybody thinks so. You could sleep with damn near anybody you wanted to. Chisled features, blue eyes, blond hair--"

"Stroke it," Germany interrupted, the syllables escaping from his mouth like desperate bubbles to hang in the air. "My hair. Please."

Germany opened his eyes to see America smile over at him - and oh, that smile - before nodding, reaching forward and brushing blunt nails through Germany's gelled strands, breaking up the style. Germany's nerves sang a choir of pleasure and he could feel his mouth slide open. His hands were hovering in the air - no longer on his head so America had room to stroke him, but not down since America hadn't given permission to lower them. He felt like he was surrendering to a head massage, which… was not untrue.

"…soft hair, too, under all the gel," America continued, voice having dipped a little softer, a little warmer, a little fonder. "You can put your hands down, by the way. Hm… well, I didn't bring any lube with me and it's not like we have much to work with out here--"

Germany put his hands down. "If you don't mind using your tongue, that… well, it used to be enough, back… back during the 40s." Normally he kept tight-lipped about his relationship with Prussia since they _technically_ were brothers, but those hands on his head felt _so good_ and _oh_ there was a bit of nail, yes, and Germany knew America _had_ to have had sex with England and Canada at this point, so. Plus, Germany was rapidly losing his ability to withhold anything with America's hands doing _that_ and the urge to please starting to absolutely consume him.

There was a problem: Germany was good at solving problems. As tribute to those hands, he offered solutions. "W-we don't have to have intercourse, of course, but I don't mind fingers with saliva and--" he did not groan here, instinct held him back, but his tumultuous sentence ended with a soft gasp, "--I'll use my mouth, if you'll let me."

America had risen an eyebrow at this point, but Germany's eyes were closed again, half-insentient with the fingers in his hair. "Impressive that you could have sex with just Prussia's tongue as lube," he remarked, correctly guessing the only individual Germany would have allowed to penetrate him in the 40s.  "But… I assume that you don't have intercourse as often now as you used to… though I definitely don't mind engaging in the act if you like it. And… Germany. Open your eyes."

Germany's eyes popped open to settle on America's face, particularly when America stopped stroking his hair. America gave a little smile. "Of course I'll let you use your mouth _if you want_. I just figured you didn't like the act. Don't feel like you must."

It was true that Germany had not used his mouth on America since that first sex act after surrendering in 1945. It wasn't that Germany had much _against_ performing oral sex - in fact, a part of him _craved_ that attention - but he never performed it on his occupiers unless it was demanded, and America hadn't ever demanded after the first time. Germany was well-aware he had submissive tendencies by this point, but that was sexual (and somewhat emotional) but not political.

This, however, was different. Germany looked to the side, and then up. "Germany doesn't want to perform oral sex on America because we're not equals and Germany doesn't grovel despite everything," he said, hesitantly trying honesty. "Ludwig wouldn't mind - and would actually like - doing it to Alfred, though, if it would please him."

America listened with his head tipped again, and then nodded. "That makes sense. God knows that if I were occupied, I'd be more apt to bite than not unless put in a stranglehold, which you more or less were." This conversation was getting dangerously close to extremely unarousing things, but, like with most subjects, America skipped off of it as easy as light on waves. "All right, Ludwig. Stand up."

Glad to have a direct order to obey, Germany rose from the ground and stood straight, hands at his sides and shoulders square, eyes straight ahead. The military figure he was attempting to cut was a little marred by the fact that his hair was mussed, but it couldn't be helped. America rose up from the ground after him, smiling and putting the guitar on the ground.

"Beautiful," America whispered, with such sincerity that Germany felt his nipples and heart tighten at the same time. "Now kiss me."

Instantly, Germany leaned forward and tipped his head against America's, opening his mouth and pressing, America's hand reaching up to brush through his hair. Germany vibrated, trying to convey what he wanted until the kiss turned sloppy and broke, America's blue eyes mirroring his own.

"Ludwig, take off your sweatshirt," America crooned, and thrill went through Germany's body as he obeyed, draping the sweatshirt over one of the logs surrounding the fire. The wind whistled.

"Very good," America said, and pleasure went through Germany's veins, such joy. "Now…" Here, his hands reached down and went under the hem of Germany's t-shirt, America's warm hands sliding up his taut stomach and defined abs, under the shirt. "It might be a little chilly if you take all of your clothes off out here, but I just want to feel… ah, you're in such good shape, really. Do you work out often?"

"Five days a week, normally," Germany automatically reported. "Sometimes more."

"Well, it certainly has paid off… hard abs, hard chest… mm…" America rolled up the bottom of Germany's shirt so he could look; this somehow made him feel more exposed than simply taking his clothes off. America bared Germany up to his pectorals, lifting the fabric and openly ogling. "Oh, Ludwig, really beautiful, truly. If you traveled more, you'd have people crawling all over you…"

Germany was flushed beet red so heavily Germany knew it had to be spreading to his neck and chest. While he couldn't see America's finger since the shirt was blocking his view, he gasped as he felt a blunt nail trace over one pectoral, and then the other - avoiding his perked nipples - and slowly outline the slight definition in his abs. His breath stuttered when America's finger hooked above the button in his jeans and tugged them down enough to reveal the soft blond trail of hair leading down to his straining cock.

"Perfect," America said with conviction. Germany could have cried, but didn't because there was another order coming: "I think I'd like to suck your nipples," America went on. "But I want to feel your muscles. Put your arms up and flex for me."

A blink and then Germany obeyed, feeling a little awkward for a half-second before America leaned forward, under the shirt, and the tip of his tongue teased the tight nub of Germany's left nipple. With one hand holding Germany's shirt and the other still hooked in Germany's jeans, America held Germany in place while his tongue swept back and forth, teasing and warming and cooling and Germany exhaled tightly as he focused on keeping his muscles tight as America's tongue started to _lave_ wide circles over the nipple and pectoral alike.

"Mmm," America intoned reverently, and Germany was so strung out with pleasure and tightness crackling along his spine like a livewire that he actually let loose a whine before cutting it off.

At that, America pulled away. "Relax," he commanded, and Germany dropped his arms, taking deep gasping breaths. His left nipple was as hard as a diamond, and when the wind blew through the campsite, the nipple contracted further and Germany _shivered_ at the sensation.

"Ludwig," America said, sounding stern. A flash of concern arrowed through Germany's body and he straightened up into the stiff military position again, though he was being held exposed and flushed and aroused to the open air. "I want to hear you tonight. If you want to moan, or whine, or anything, I want to hear you. Understood?"

"Yes," Ludwig whispered, and was rewarded by America's smile and a wave of relief.

"Good. Very good. Now. Flex for me."

This time America attacked the right nipple, and Germany… well, he tried to obey. After a few seconds his panting became louder, and soon his voice was spilling out alongside the pants, a strange rhythm of _oh, oh, oh, oh_ that repeated itself like a record with a skip in it.

This time when America pulled back, Germany _did_ whine. When America looked up, entreaty must have been written all over Germany's face because America smiled. "You're so lovely," America said, and Germany closed his eyes, letting something like a sob escape him.

But he wasn't sad. For once.

America moved, then, stepping behind Germany, pressing his body against Germany's naked back and shoulders; they were almost of a height, Germany only slightly taller. "A sexy back, as well," America purred. "One day you'll really need to show me your routines, if they're this effective." His hands snaked around Germany's side to start trailing over Germany's front once more. One of them came up and cupped Germany's jaw, running a thumb along the stubble. Germany let another little moan escape.

"What do you prefer, here? Let's see… I could put fingers in your beautiful mouth…" the fingers of the hand at Germany's jaw teased Germany's lips a little, "…I could wrap a hand around that firm cock… but do you like that, I wonder?" The hand lower on Germany's body traced fingernails lightly over the bulge in Germany's jeans, causing Germany to gasp. "Or do you like to wait? Test your discipline? You seem like you'd be a bit masochistic… or, well, I guess I know you are since the whole porn debacle. Say, when you watch that porn… do you imagine being the one holding the riding crop or feeling its sting?"

Listening to America talk was quite literally like ingesting beautiful drugs. Germany was so high on sensation and warmth that even mentioning the whole "now the whole world knows I'm into leather" debacle couldn't bring him down. He panted for a moment. "Which do you think?" he whispered. He knew answering a question with a question wasn't--

His thought process was derailed when America stepped away from him. Germany almost fell over from the sudden loss of warmth and stimulation, and he made a quiet gasping noise before whipping his head around to see America standing slightly off to the side, his arms folded.

"Prussia never let _me_ get away with answering a question with a question when he was torture-training me," America said with a half-smile.

"I imagine being the submissive," Germany said, the words tumbling out of his mouth hastily. "I… it's what I…" Now he started to stutter, a bit embarrassed and not sure what else to say to get America to stand against him again. "Mostly with Prussia…"

"I'd pay good money to watch that," America said, and now that Germany was looking at him again, America was _very_ flushed. "Mm, handsome Germans dominating each other. Yes, that would be… quite nice." America stepped forward and put his arms around Germany in a hug that would have seemed odd were it not so welcome. Germany slumped into him, letting America take his weight, knowing that the other could and would.

"You _are_ beautiful," America murmured into his ear, voice so quiet it was hard to believe it was America's. "Really. Not just for this, either."

There was a pause where the world teetered on the edge of a knife; it swirled around him fueled by beer and bourbon and arousal; it buoyed him up with such kind words; it warmed him with arms that smelled of plenty and warmth.

The wall fell.

With a single thrust forward against America's thigh, Germany lost control of himself and hit orgasm like a supernova: sensation spiraled out to the tips of his fingers and made him go lightheaded and at the same time he burst into tears.

America, once he realized what was going on, pressed his thigh forward to give Germany something to grind against as he released, and one hand went to rest against the back of Germany's head, putting Germany's head against America's shoulder when Germany tried to pull away. It didn't take much convincing for Germany to stay where he was, sobbing even as aftershocks shook him to his core.

It was too much. Everything was too much.

It took a few moments for Germany to suck in air and calm down enough to at least try and pull away: America let him. After a few moments, Germany swallowed and wiped his mouth.

"I'm… I'm so sorry," Germany said, not sure of a single other thing to say. His gaze hovered in the vicinity of America's shoes. He could feel sticky semen starting to leak out from one of the legholes in his underpants down his leg, and a lump grew in his throat. For a moment, he was terrified of crying again.

America's hand curled under Germany's chin and tipped it up. Germany's eyes connected with a smile. "Don't be," America said. "Everybody cries sometimes, even nations. Even though England likes to lie and says he never does. But he's a damn liar; I've seen him do it."

Well, even nations may cry, Germany thought, but not typically in the middle of sex. He inhaled, exhaled, and took a look down at America's crotch. There did not appear to be an erection there.

"Nah, lost it," America told him, still smiling. "And I'm probably too drunk to get it up again. Don't worry about it. There's always next time, yeah?"

Germany nodded dumbly, and America reached out to take his hand and guide him back to the tent. Inside the tent, America switched on the electric lantern and picked up the two neatly set-out bedrolls atop the sleeping mats, and unzipped them.

"Help me zip 'em together?" America asked, and Germany stepped forward, his hands attempting to stabilize the bags as America affixed the zippers; this took a couple of tries due to both parties being a bit intoxicated. Once the bags were together, America laid them out on the ground and pointed to Germany. "Strip," he instructed, and started to do the same.

Germany would have liked to get a wet washcloth or something to clean up first, but instead did what he was told, using his soiled underpants to at least get off the worst of the stickiness. When he turned around, America was already underneath the now-double sleeping bag, brandishing a wet wipe in one hand. "Get in," he said, still cheerful.

Germany crawled into the sleeping bag, and lay on his back. America's naked body shifted close to him, laying on its side; America reached forward. "Might be a bit cold," America warned, before the hand with the wipe started to clean between Germany's legs.

Sighing, Germany parted his legs to allow America better access. Frankly, America was taking a bit more time with the act than necessary, but Germany didn't mind: the nakedness and the gentle touch were soothing.

America's lips pressed against his temple before he snuggled down next to Germany like he'd been born to do it, one arm draping over Germany's chest. "Now let's go to sleep," America intoned, his eyes already sliding shut: he hadn't taken off his glasses, and they were rucked awkwardly on his face. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," Germany replied, watching America's face in the dark carefully as the other drifted off - this didn't take long.

With his free hand, Germany reached forward and gently removed America's glasses, careful not to wake the wearer. Folding them, he set them above the pillow where they wouldn't get smashed.

Tucking his head into America's embrace, it didn't take long for Germany to drift off, either, floating.

# # #

Germany woke up the next morning with a slight headache, but he'd certainly had worse hangovers.

America was still asleep, plastered against his side, his hot breath rhythmic against Germany's shoulder.

The events of last night were… embarrassing, frankly, but the way that America was still plastered up against him seemed to mean that he really hadn't minded. And he had said so many very kind things that still warmed Germany inside. It wasn't going to fix everything, no, but… oh, he hoped at least some of the things America had said were true.

A part of him felt guilty… America had been bluntly calling Germany his friend for a while, now, but Germany hadn't ever really believed him. Germany looked at the sleeping barnacle that called itself America and let his lips bend up in a small smile, feeling warm.

As Germany was on his back and America on his side… it didn't take much to reach between America's legs and… yes, there it was, the morning erection.

There wasn't anything that Germany could do about last night and how it ended… only be thankful that America apparently took it so well. Today, however…

Germany carefully shuffled out of America's grip, causing the other nation to grunt and wake up a bit. America would wake up more, shortly; Germany crawled deeper inside of the sleeping bag, put his hands on America's thighs, and gently pressed a sweet kiss to the underside of America's unaware, hard cock. Another. Another.

Eventually, Germany felt America shift slightly, and then a hand rested on his hair, making Germany look up.

"Good morning," America said quietly, still speaking in German. Germany's heart fluttered.

"Good morning," Germany responded. "May I?"

He was rewarded with a sleepy smile and a nod. "Hey, I'm not complaining," America said, brushing Germany's hair back fondly. Germany sighed with pleasure and then leaned forward, taking America in his mouth.

Germany knew he wasn't the world's most adventuresome sex partner: he knew how to give acceptable, quiet head, and had never deviated from it since there was no reason to. His head moved up and down and his offerings were obviously adequate: America was thickening under his tongue and he could hear soft half-gasped pleas and groans from the other.

After a moment, a memory popped into his mind from last night: _I want to hear you_ , America had said. This wasn't 1945. It wasn't 1919. There was nobody else around, no risk, no danger.

The next time when Germany pulled up, he added more suction and _slurped_ , the noise tearing through the morning.

 _Ohhhh, God, fuck, damnation_ , America said in response, falling back into English due to surprise.

Yes. That was a very pleasing reaction, even if it wasn't in German. When he bobbed back down this time, he opened his mouth _wide_ and laved his tongue as far down toward America's balls as it would go, drawing in a sharp breath.

 _Shit!_ America responded. Germany thought it was a very good thing that he had a clandestine relationship with Prussia while trying to avoid Nazi suspicions of homosexuality and not America.

Not that he would have been having sex with America at the time.  That would have been extremely bizarre. The thought was so absurd that Germany felt a little chuckle bubble up in his throat as he pulled back again, starting to bob faster, crimping his lips in new positions, twisting his head, changing the rhythm, drooling and slurping and _mm_.

America very vocally approved of his efforts, which was appreciated. A hand rested in Germany's hair, which felt so damn good, as good as the strengthening taste of salt and the sound of oaths becoming gradually fiercer.

Germany definitely didn't love America the same way he loved Prussia, but he let every movement of the other nation strengthen that warm feeling inside, the one that had been there for a while but constantly ignored: fondness. _I like America,_ he realized as America's body froze under him and his mouth filled with the half-forgotten bitterness of semen; _he likes me_.

He swallowed, and then pushed himself up out of the bag. America was panting, red-faced on the pillow.

"God damn it, Ludwig," America said, eyes adorably slit as America attempted to focus on Germany's face without glasses. "If I had known you sucked cock like that, I would have been requesting it earlier!"

Germany snorted. "I don't suck cock like that when I'm being ordered to do it." Er. "…well, depending on the situation and who's doing the ordering…"

That drew a hearty laugh from America and Germany smiled too, particularly when America shifted forward and rested his head against Germany's chest when Germany lay back down.

"Your glasses are above the pillow when you want them," Germany informed America after a moment. "You fell asleep with them on last night."

America snorted. "Do that all the time. Thanks."

"My pleasure," Germany murmured.

It was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HISTORICAL NOTES
> 
> Not that many this time! Basically, the Western powers of "trizonia" (US, UK, France) were indeed divided on reuniting Germany. The UK in particular was bitterly against it, or at least Margaret Thatcher was ("We defeated the Germans twice! And now they're back!") since by the late 1980s West Germany was the dominant economic power of Europe already, and it was feared reunification would make Germany more dominant. France was also more against it than not, with Mitterand's opinion that a modern reunited Germany could "make more ground than even Hitler had." However, Mitterand realized that reunification was inevitable by the late 1980s, and changed his public tune much quicker than Thatcher did.
> 
> The US was far less concerned about reunification. As per Condoleezza Rice: "It [West Germany] had been a good friend, it was a member of NATO. Any issues that had existed in 1945, it seemed perfectly reasonable to lay them to rest." The only thing the US required in order to support German reunification was that it stay in NATO, which was a concession that the West German government agreed to readily. 
> 
> Due to overall support, the US is often given more credit for German reunification than it deserves, though. Really, the nation that made it happen was Russia (specifically Gorbachev), since it allowed the GDR to vote itself into West Germany. 
> 
> Obviously, I will be writing fic on this at a later date, because fun.


	3. Prussia's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually a character exercise I wrote regarding Prussia's POV on the Versailles Treaty scene and its aftermath. I didn't originally post it since this story is Germany-centric, but I just found it on my computer and figured, eh, why not. I can't post this as a separate work, but have an addendum.

West's noises abruptly ceased; the panting, the shifting, the _unbearable_ crying and agonized wails cutting off like a tailor's scissors had snipped them.

Prussia couldn't see anything past the blindfold, but he could feel France stepping back from the table and the shifting of weight as West's legs were lowered. (Prussia figured that due to the shape of the table, England had to be holding West's legs up to allow France access and leverage; the mental image made his blood boil.)

"Very interesting," France said into the silence, making Prussia's jaw _tighten_. "I'm surprised you let him besmirch his own honor like that."

"He is a child," Prussia replied shortly.

"Funny how he's a child _now_ , but not when you're attempting to destroy the world in his name he's not," England said. Movement - the pair of them were shifting over to pay attention to _him_ now that West was out of commission, thank God.

Now _he_ just had to live through this. At least it wasn't his first time.

Prussia snorted. "And if our fortunes were reversed and I were tearing the entirety of North America new assholes about now, I am sure you would feel no pique. I'm the one you want; not him."

Fingers then, gently carding through his hair: a clear mockery of gentleness. Prussia automatically flinched at first, due to lack of sight, but then straightened out again, forcing a flat expression on his face. Somebody was clearly leaning over him intimately to whisper in his ear - probably France.

"I would say he is fortunate to have such a brother as you," France cooed against the shell of his ear, poison honey from a quicksilver mouth, "if only you hadn't brought him here."

The rest of the encounter proceeded more or less as expected.

That sentence is the only thing Prussia remembers hurting.

# # #

The few times when Prussia ruminates on this experience (it is not often, and generally only when too drunk to fend off the thoughts), he actually considers the aftermath of the treaty signing worse than the signing itself. (When Prussia feels cynical, he notes that this was true in history, as well.)

When France and England had finished, French soldiers had come in and expressionlessly unbound both Prussia and West, shooing them off the table. West was still out like a light, so Prussia had to lever West's dead weight over his shoulder (not an easy task) and carefully hobble over to the last sun-drenched corner of the dusky room - it seemed the warmest. His feet stuck to the floor, leaving bloody footprints.

Ignoring this, Prussia carefully knelt and unloaded West's body onto the ground, placing him on his side to try not to aggravate West's wounds further. West's slack face was still wet with tears, mucus, and drool - Prussia swallowed and wiped the skin as clean as he could with gentle thumbs.

When he looked up, the French soldiers were gone and the table had been cleaned - a white tablecloth had been tossed over it, and apparently somebody had wiped up the bloody footprints. No clothes, though.

Bastards.

Irritated, Prussia stood up to cross the room again - mostly to get more bloody footprints on the pristine floor, if he were being honest with himself - and ripped the tablecloth off that damned table to head back to the corner. Dust motes, trapped in the light, swirled above West's defiled form before Prussia banished them by throwing out the tablecloth in an angry flick and letting its crisp whiteness settle over West's body.

At least with this, West would be a _little_ warmer and not entirely naked. And at least Prussia wouldn't have to stare at his little brother's blood-soaked legs and know exactly what it meant.

Prussia didn't make a science of feeling bad about himself.

As he gingerly settled into a sitting position with his back against the cold wall and arranged West's head to pillow on his thighs, though, he closed his eyes and had to tilt his head back. Otherwise he would have re-wet West's face again with more tears, these his own.

# # #

West had woken up about three minutes before the German entourage arrived to pick up the human interpretations of their ravaged pride, and West had said nothing.

West didn't generally need to say much to Prussia, though; Prussia was an expert at West's variety of silences. When the delegation had draped both Prussia and West with soft blankets, West had nodded in acknowledgement, face straight, but shoulders hunched in and eyes on the floor.

On second thought, it probably wasn't necessary to be an expert on West to figure it out; the humans were clearly picking up on it as well. On the sleeper train back - nothing requiring sitting was going to be pleasant for at least a week, Prussia knew from experience - West had rolled into his bed with his face to the wall and declined any invitations of food and drink, curled up in a tight, protective ball.

It was another indication of how young West had been, Prussia realized - acting visibly distressed in front of humans tended to throw the humans into a tizzy. Prussia finally had to get up and go tell the head of catering to knock it off.

Prussia, lying on his own bunk as the train rattled and rocked back home, sipped his own cup of tea and looked over at the silent, unmoving lump of blankets representing West. Had they not been in public, Prussia probably would have made more of an overture; however, it was important to maintain decorum and many of the humans on the train were high-ranking. West's behavior was difficult enough to explain away.

 _As though being raped isn't an excuse enough_ , Prussia had thought bitterly, putting down the empty teacup and settling into his own blankets.

Though, he couldn't blame the humans. From their perspective, this was Just What Happened. It didn't seem like anybody thought twice about it. Prussia really never had, before, either. Additionally, it had been true what England said - all things considered, this had been a fairly vanilla experience, comparatively. Unpleasant, but not unpleasantly exotic.

(Prussia made a mental note never to go to war with Austria again, or, if he did, find a way to leave West out of it.)

Looking at his brother's defensively curled up form, though, Prussia distantly wondered when exactly everybody had become so thoughtless.

# # #

When they arrived home after several silent hours of travel, West had gotten up and gone to his own quarters, still absolutely silent. Prussia was relieved that the whole charade was through - he had stayed on the train a little longer, treating with the dignitaries a bit before leaving, making excuses for his silent, elusive little brother.

God, Prussia wanted to punch every single last one of them.

When he'd managed to escape, he hesitated in front of West's closed door before shaking his head and heading to his own - no sense in bothering the boy if he didn't want to be bothered. Prussia figured he'd give West some time and try to approach tomorrow.

Besides, he was glad he didn't try when he got back to his own rooms and found a welcomingly hot bath waiting for him. He slid in with a grateful sigh, closing his eyes as the water turned pink.

One of the more unpleasant side effects after such negative political encounters was the inevitable mess afterward. While thankfully there would be no permanent tearing - nations, being immortal, always healed - the bleeding would continue for at least a couple of days. To combat this, Prussia had always used a roll of flat bandage wrapped around and between the legs - it was nearly unnoticeable, was easy to change, and could staunch a considerable amount of blood if necessary.

Once Prussia had soaked until the water had cooled and dressed his wounds with a practiced motion, he slid the nightshift over his head and gratefully limped toward bed when a thought stalled him.

Would West know to bandage himself? Would he know _how_?

Prussia's lip ticked up - West probably wouldn't. It hadn't been part of any training session or triage lesson. West was a smart boy and could probably figure it _out_ , but--

Prussia sighed and turned away from bed. He figured it was within his set of duties to at least make sure that West didn't end up sleeping in a puddle of his own blood. That was important enough to disturb West's justified desire for solitude.

Making it back down the hall, Prussia tapped on West's door before opening it. "West, I know you want to be alone, but--"

The scene in the room caused Prussia's teeth to clack shut, cutting off the sentence. A huge puddle of blood marked one side of West's mattress, the blankets strewn around the room as if they had been thrown - bloody footprints made their way to the furthest corner of the room where West was curled - knees up and arms around them, his face buried in the wall for a moment before turning his head toward the opening door. His face was sweaty and pale - blood both old and new streaked his legs. He clearly hadn't used the untouched bath sitting in front of the hearth.

"I'm sorry," West said immediately, his voice cracking and strange like it hadn't been since his _very_ brief puberty stage, "I-I… I couldn't stop it, it just happened."

Prussia felt like his heart had fallen off a mountain and shattered into nothingness. Prussia swallowed, quickly got hold of himself and stepped in, closing the door quietly behind him. "It's not your fault," he said, keeping his voice low. West was staring at him like he was the only real thing in the room. "I wanted to help you, so I came to see you. Will you let me help you?"

Prussia hadn't spoken to West like this since they were first acquainted and West couldn't speak German yet. West was still staring, but his head gave the tiniest of nods.

"All right," Prussia said, and carefully crossed the room on soft feet, silent as if he were stalking prey. "Can you stand? You need to wash, first, all right? Get the blood off. I'll wait outside and--"

"No," West said immediately, with such sharpness that Prussia stopped his approach. "Stay."

Prussia nodded slowly. "I'll stay," he agreed softly, and when he finished his approach he rested his hands gently on West's cold, clammy shoulders. "Come on, Ludwig. Stand for me."

Prussia rarely used West's real name, and upon hearing it West took a shaky breath and nodded. It took some effort to get him up, with Prussia assisting as well as he could - given his own state, he wasn't as spry as normal - and walking him over to the lukewarm water.

West washed silently as Prussia collected the bandages and a clean night shift from West's clothespress. He stole a look at the mattress and winced - the bloodstain was a heavy one… the mattress would likely need to be replaced. Wonderful. Another strain on the budget.

But that wasn't the main concern at the moment - he turned around to see West sitting in the now-pink waters of the bath, staring at him with that vacant expression again, unmoving.

"Are you finished?" Prussia asked, in that strange too-soft voice.

West nodded.

"All right," Prussia said, and had to swallow on a lump suddenly rising in his throat, unbidden. "Stand up, then."

West did, and Prussia dried him off without asking - West seemed to expect it. With a soft admonition to pay attention, Prussia also carefully bandaged him - West said nothing, but could see West's eyes following Prussia's motions. This meant that West would likely be able to perfectly replicate the motion in the morning - he'd always been quick like that.

Prussia handed him the clean nightshift, which West put on. "You can't sleep in here tonight - we'll have to get a new mattress," Prussia said, waving toward the soiled bed. "You can sleep in my bed tonight and I'll--"

"I want you to stay," West interrupted, eyes briefly flicking up to Prussia's before lowering. "Please."

Prussia nodded. "As you wish," he said quietly.

"And I don't… I don't…" West swallowed hard, and it was evident he was holding back tears, "…I don't want to see anybody tomorrow, and I don't…" Here, West's throat gummed up and his expression closed in on itself in what was clearly a losing battle.

"We don't have to see anybody tomorrow," Prussia soothed - however, it was clearly getting vital that they change rooms, otherwise there was danger of a tearful West running into some dignitary and Prussia didn't think anybody would be able to handle that well at the moment. "Come on." He took West's hand and gave it a gentle tug - West moved willingly, his free hand reaching up to wipe at his face, his breathing labored and choppy.

Prussia moved them quickly through the halls, praying to all the gods he didn't believe in that they wouldn't run into anyone. They didn't.

A minor miracle.

Prussia closed the door behind West and nodded. "All right, we're alone."

West broke down. In a quiet manner, but once it started Prussia realized that he wasn't going to _stop_ until he was physically unable to continue, so he guided West over to the bed with gentle touches and got him settled under the covers -- "Wait a moment, little brother, I'm just going to put out the lights" - before climbing in next to him. West immediately pressed up against him, his face in Prussia's chest, and Prussia's arms went around him, fingers idly combing through West's damp hair.

West's soft noises of pain eventually started to slow… then soften… and soon he was merely hiccupping and shivering every few moments like a car engine that wouldn't quite turn. Then he was still.

Prussia didn't sleep at all that night, holding West against his body and watching the dark night sky eventually lighten and pinken and turn blue. In those hours, a deep-seeded anger rooted in his soul, one that would never go away until it was burned from him in a firestorm that would take two decades to build.

Prussia was going to make them pay if it was the last thing he did.

(It was.)


End file.
